


An Odyssey

by whitefang (radialarch)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Reichenbach, borrowings from ACD and Homer, use of multiple media formats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 15:03:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radialarch/pseuds/whitefang
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John sets out to prove Sherlock's innocence and finds out much more along the way. Meanwhile, Sherlock is trying his best to finish what he started and come home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Verdict Inspires

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks and love to Kitkat and Riza, without whom this would neither make sense nor be British.
> 
> This is, essentially, a re-telling of Homer's _Odyssey_ , without the supernatural elements. The plot (and in particular, its non-linear narrative style) will align fairly closely, but this is unquestionably a story, not an epic poem.

_Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns  
driven time and again off course, once he had fallen from  
the heights of St Bartholomew’s.  
...  
Launch out on his story, Muse, daughter of Zeus,  
start from where you will – sing for our time too._

 

“Raoul de Santos Conviction Overturned”

“What Really Killed Connie Prince?”

“de Santos Verdict a Worrying Precedent for NSY”

“Controversy over Fake Detective Continues”

“Home Secretary Under Inquiry”

 

actor? really?  
was holmes a fake or not? dunno why de santos would’ve gone to prison, even for a short while  
1 hour ago

  cynical_polarbear  
  depends how much he paid him, y/y?  
  1 hour ago

science  
but the autopsy!  
56 minutes ago

  women...  
  the girl who did it fancied him, tho. she prolly wrote down whatever he said.  
  55 minutes ago

    hey  
    Misogynistic *bullshit* does not count as “contributing to the conversation”.  
    53 minutes ago

      loosen up  
      can’t handle the truth?  
      53 minutes ago

confused  
is there an *actual* inquiry going on anywhere?  
55 minutes ago

coppers?  
what I don’t get is how the Met ever fell for it  
49 minutes ago

  cynical_polarbear  
  hey, he “solved” their cases. why would they complain?  
  47 minutes ago

anonymous  
#Believe in Sherlock Holmes http://bit.ly/xrsyJK  
48 minutes ago

re: that interview  
can’t we just talk to Richard Brook again?  
34 minutes ago

  GUYS  
  HOLMES KILLED HIM. #RichBrookWasReal.  
  29 minutes ago

    Watson’s Warrior  
    Actually, according to the forensics report, he blew his own brains out. Do your research.  
    28 minutes ago

a question  
yeah, what happened to john watson? anyone talk to him?  
27 minutes ago

  poor guy  
  taken in like that, can you imagine? (especially if they actually were ... involved)  
  22 minutes ago

    cynical_polarbear  
    don’t be thick, he was probably in on it too. how do you live with a maniac for two years and not notice?  
    18 minutes ago  


 

John Watson opened the door of 221 Baker Street and promptly blinked as a bright flash assaulted his eyes.

“Dr Watson! Do you still hold that Sherl—”

_SLAM._

The shut door muffled the rest of the question, but John’s face had already lost colour at the mention of Sherlock’s name. He stood in the hallway taking a few deep breaths before calling out, “Mrs Hudson?”

“What’s that, love?” The reply came a moment later as the woman looked out from 221A. “What’s wrong?”

“Do you know how long that reporter’s been out there?”

“A reporter? I thought those had gone away weeks ago!”

“Yeah, I thought so, too.” John gave her a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs H, I’m sure they’ll leave soon.” With another smile – hopefully a more reassuring one – he started up the stairs and peered through the living room drapes.

During that brief interval, a second journalist had joined the first. One of them, leaning across a car parked on the opposite side of the street, leveled a curious glance at the window. John drew back with a snap.

“Bloody journalists,” he muttered. The tremor in his hand had started up again. He stared at it with a frown, then dropped it. “Christ,” he said softly. “I thought we were done with this.”

He stilled suddenly, then raised his head up high. “We were done with this.” To the casual observer, John Watson seemed to be addressing a bleached skull on the mantelpiece; John himself would not have been able to say who he was talking to. “Something must have happened.”

He settled into his chair and opened his laptop.

**Inbox (27)**

“What?”

johnwatsonblog | Anonymous has commented on “Untitled” | 2 minutes ago  
---|---|---  
johnwatsonblog | #Believe has commented on “Untitled” | 2 minutes ago  
johnwatsonblog | Parker has commented on on “Untitled” | 4 minutes ago  
johnwatsonblog | stop feeding the troll has commented on... | 5 minutes ago  
  
...  
  
With a sinking feeling, John clicked on his blog. Then quickly closed out of it again. “Can’t they all just give it a rest?” he asked, voice plaintive.

Apparently not.

His phone buzzed, making him jump slightly. “Oh, what now?” he muttered crossly at it, fumbling at his pocket.

_Harry W. [11:27:04]  
saw the paper. u ok?  
it’s the sun just ignore them  
and call me_

Oh. 

And there it was, splashed on their website, not quite the lead story but prominent just the same: “Controversy over Fake Detective Continues”. (A small part of John’s brain was outraged that Sherlock didn’t even merit the headlines anymore. The rest of his brain told it to shut up.)

So, Raoul de Santos had been freed. John let out a groan – how could they have let him go, when the evidence was so clear?

_It’s only clear if you believe in Sherlock_ , a small voice whispered. John shook his head wildly to dislodge the thought. “Of course I believe in him,” he said out loud, looking over at the skull.

It said nothing.

“I’m talking to a skull.” John rubbed a hand over his face. “I’ve cracked, haven’t I?”

Still no reply.

John heaved a sigh and got to his feet, intending to make himself a cup of tea. He took two steps before remembering why he’d been trying to go out in the first place. “No tea. Right.”

It was going to be a long day.

 

With a cup of whatever herbal tea Mrs Hudson seemed to favour, John waved an indignant hand towards the window. “Who do they think they are?” he snapped, picking up a biscuit and biting into it with more force than was probably required. “They’ve already got their stories. Don’t they have other lives to ruin? Sharks, the lot of them, out for blood.”

“It does seem that way,” Mrs Hudson agreed, stirring sugar into her own cup. “I remember, when my husband was on trial, you couldn’t step foot out the door without someone thrusting a camera in your face, or shouting rude questions...”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” John had stopped short with half a biscuit in his mouth. “Of course—I didn’t realise—”

“Oh, don’t worry, dear.” Mrs Hudson calmly sipped her tea. “It’s nothing to worry about. Roger and I had our differences. I’ve accepted that.”

John wasn’t sure how to react to a statement like that, especially since “had our differences” probably meant “ensured his death sentence”. Instead of saying anything he might regret later, he swallowed a mouthful of tea—and abruptly hid a grimace. He _really_ had to go to Asda.

“And it’s just...Sher—Sherlock was innocent. Anyone who met him for two seconds would believe that.”

Mrs Hudson nodded. “The first time I met him, he asked how my sister’s dog was doing.”

“And...how was it doing?”

“Well, my sister didn’t have a dog.” John looked up to see Mrs Hudson starting to grin. “My brother, on the other hand...”

A sharp laugh burst out of him. “I guess that’s his weakness.”

“What’s that?”

“My, uh, sister. He was convinced I had a brother named ‘Harry’.”

A shared look, and then they were both giggling, a bracing moment, and for the first time in weeks John felt entirely clear-headed. Because it was so _rare_ , that Sherlock would ever be wrong, and even more so that he might be wrong twice.

“This will pass, John,” Mrs Hudson said rather tenderly when the moment had gone, pushing over the plate of biscuits. “Here, have some more. Have you been eating properly?”

 

The reporters had _not_ lost interest by the time the weekend came around, and John was rather sick of dodging them to go to work, to pick up a bit of shopping, or even to just go out for a walk.

And that was before they started asking questions. The endless stream of questions.

“Doctor Watson, would you like to respond to Mr de Santos’s accusation that Mr Holmes was ‘a mentally unstable man with delusions of grandeur’?”

“Doctor Watson, were you aware that Mr Holmes had a severe drug dependency and was in fact hospitalised several times in his youth? Had you known, would you still have taken up a flatshare with him?”

“Doctor Watson, would you agree that Sherlock Holmes seemed to suffer from some psychiatric disorder?”

“Doctor Watson, you’ve persistently refused to answer questions pertaining to the close relationship between you and the late Sherlock Holmes—”

_Yeah, well, that’s because it’s none of your damn business!_ John would have loved to shout. But he restrained himself, because it didn’t matter, what they said: he knew the truth, clung to it with both hands.

Still, they were slowly wearing him down.

The day that he almost snapped, imagining so vividly a reporter’s nose cracking under his hands that he could practically smell the blood, he made a decision. 

 

“I can’t stand it anymore,” he told Mrs Hudson. “Sherlock wasn’t a fraud.”

“Of course he wasn’t, John. But what can we do?”

“Someone ought to say something. Give them some kind of proof. That’d be the logical thing to do. Facts. You can’t fight facts.”

Mrs Hudson was now staring at John, quite concerned. “John?”

He’d been unconsciously fisting his left hand into his jumper. With some effort, he let go and took a deep breath. “I’m going to do it,” he said, fierce and determined. “I’ll _prove_ Sherlock was innocent.”


	2. John Sets Out

_“Going into battle, John. I’ll need the right armour!”_

 

This was, undoubtedly, a battle. And John knew who he’d want on his side.

That didn’t mean he liked it.

“Hi,” he smiled at the woman outside Mycroft’s office. “Anthea, was it?”

She looked up from her desk, expression blank. “Anthea is fine,” she nodded. “May I help you?”

“I’d like to talk to Mycroft, please.”

“Mr Holmes is engaged for the rest of the day,” she said primly. “There are some mildly pressing matters that require his attention.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” John muttered to himself. Knowing Mycroft that probably meant he was preventing the financial collapse of western Europe or some other nonsense. “I can wait.”

“Doctor Watson, Mr Holmes might be occupied for quite some time. Are you sure you don’t want to—”

“ _I can wait_ ,” he bit out, and the look he gave her was the same he’d used to make Sherlock clear the fingers from the bathtub.

“All right.” With a sigh, she gestured at a chair in the corner and whipped out her BlackBerry, thumbs tapping rapidly at the keys. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” he nodded, and pointedly took the chair on the other side of the room.

 

“Hello, John.” Mycroft came in just as the sky outside the window was turning a deep navy. “Come in.”

“Mycroft,” John acknowledged, getting to his feet and following Mycroft into his office. To his surprise the man was looking rather grey; perhaps the breakup of the EU was imminent? “We need to talk.”

“No.”

John, who had been about to launch into a memorised speech about Sherlock, stopped with his mouth open. Mycroft was turned away, looking out the window with his hands clasped behind his back, so John took a moment to recover before saying, “Sorry, what?”

“No, John.” Mycroft still hadn’t quite looked at John. “You want to try and prove Sherlock’s ... innocence. I’m afraid I can’t help.”

“How do you know that? And what the hell do you mean, _you can’t help_?”

Mycroft shrugged one elegantly dressed shoulder, wordless. John stared at Mycroft’s back, wondering how to politely phrase, _Are you really a heartless bastard, or is it all an act?_

Sod politeness.

“You know, Mycroft,” he started conversationally, “I thought you cared about him. Isn’t that what you said? That you worry about him? _Constantly?_ ”

There was an arrested motion of Mycroft’s head. John smiled and kept talking. “Well, you’re not doing a very good job, are you? First, you sell him out to his worst enemy. And now you won’t even try to help clear his name. Were you trying at all?”

Another flinch on Mycroft’s part, but John was past caring now. “How does it feel to have failed so completely?” he asked, not even trying to hide the contempt in his voice. “I guess I shouldn’t have bothered coming here. What could you even do?” He started toward the door, tossing over his shoulder as he left, “Get the cameras out of the flat, Mycroft.”

Mycroft waited until the door had closed to sink down into his chair, face in his hands.

* * *

“Hullo, John.”

“Greg.” John took the seat opposite the DI, a pint in hand. Greg’s own scotch was already half-empty.

This had been somewhat of a weekly ritual for both of them, going down to The Feathers to relax over drinks and swap stories about the madman that was Sherlock. They kept on meeting after everything, because it was easier than talking about how Greg had been suspended indefinitely while all of Sherlock’s cases were being re-examined, and definitely easier than discussing the unnatural quiet of 221B.

“How are you?” John asked, taking a long draught of his own drink.

“Arsenal,” Greg muttered, faintly disgusted. “I can’t believe it, Dimmock’s going to be insufferably smug about this for _weeks_.”

John grinned. “You’re the one with the bad taste to support the Spurs.”

“Not you, too.” Greg’s voice was half-scandalised, half-laughing. “I used to trust your judgment!”

With shared chuckles, the men started on their fish-and-chips. “So you’re still in touch with Dimmock, then?” John said after a while.

“Yeah,” Greg sighed. “He visits now and then, talking about cases and what-have-you. Bright guy, but forms decisions too quickly.” Greg paused, a slightly surprised expression coming over his face. “God, I used to do that. That’s what Gregson said about _me_ , actually.” He looked over at John, steadily working through his cod fillet. “When the hell did I get so old?”

“Tragedy of being human.” John took another drink. “Don’t worry, Greg, you’re still far from senile and irrelevant.”

“Senile, maybe not, but irrelevant?” Greg leaned back, shaking his head. “I’m getting there, all right.”

“Only geniuses and madmen stay relevant forever,” John pointed out. “Speaking of whom...”

“Hmm?” Greg was instantly on alert. “Has another one of those popped up?”

“Not as far as I know. Unless you count those bloody journalists.”

“Those always count,” Greg muttered, but relaxed a fraction and reached for another chip. “All right, what, then?”

“You’ve seen the news articles coming back?”

“Yeah. Ridiculous, the lot of them.”

“Not gonna disagree with you there.” John took a breath. “But someone has to fight it.”

“Ah.” Greg looked at John. “And that’d be you.”

John let out a soft sigh. “Who else can it be?”

“Listen, John.” Greg leaned forward, eyes intense. “I don’t think I can help, not without the Met coming down on my arse and the re-opened cases being compromised...but if anyone can clean up this mess, I’d put my money on you.”

“Thank you,” John gave a weak grin, swallowing the last of his fish. “You’d probably lose the money, but it’s the thought that counts, right?”

“Oh, no you don’t,” Greg protested. “I put my support behind you, now you’ve got to succeed.”

John suddenly smirked. “Didn’t work for the Spurs, did it?”

“Oi!”

As the two men dissolved into laughter, a familiar voice came from behind John. “Sir,” greeted Sally Donovan, before she recognised Greg’s drinking partner. “Oh, I’m sorry, um, hello, John—” she coughed, looked away, then forced her head back to meet John’s gaze. Her expression was a strange mixture of apologetic and defiant; John gave her a short smile and got to his feet.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “I’d best be off anyway. It was good talking to you, Greg. Evening, Sgt Donovan.”

As John walked away, Sally slipped into his seat with a frown. She chewed on her lower lip for a moment as Greg tipped back the last of his drink, and then seemed to decide to ignore the whole thing. “Good to see you, sir,” she started instead.

“Sally,” Greg sighed wearily. “We’ve been over this before. I’m not your superior anymore – call me ‘Greg’, will you?”

“With all due respect, sir, until the Holmes issue has been resolved, you remain a detective inspector, and—”

Greg cut her off with a wave of his hand. “Yes, all right,” he said indulgently. He’d been like that once, too: depending the regulations to keep from being lost in the grey fog of morality. “What kind of case have you got this week?”

* * *

“Hello, Molly,” John said, walking into the mortuary, and then quirked an eyebrow as something went clattering onto a metal tray.

“John! Hi!” Molly turned around, flashing him a smile, then hurriedly reached out to pick up her scalpel before dropping it again. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” she began, voice bright, though she didn’t meet his gaze. “Is everything all right? How’ve you been?”

“I’ve been...fine,” John shrugged. “Getting by, you know.” He paused. “Well, before all these articles about Sherlock started coming out again.”

“I see,” she said, wringing her hands together. “Yes, those are pretty horrible, aren’t they?” She was looking at the floor now. “After everything he did, I can’t believe that the reporters swallowed all those lies, just like that.” 

Molly suddenly raised her head, and John was surprised to see a hint of anger in her eyes. “They brought... _his_ body here, too, you know. When they found him on the roof.”

The finding of Moriarty’s body (or, as many papers insisted, the body of Richard Brook) on St Barts rooftop had only fuelled suspicion against Sherlock. Many articles had gleefully claimed that Sherlock, in addition to being a fraud, was also a murderer. Just the memory of those days made John’s fists clench.

“They could have asked me,” Molly insisted. “I would have told them, he wasn’t Richard Brook. I knew him, and he _lied_ to me.” Suddenly, she let out a helpless laugh. “I guess it doesn’t matter now, though. He’s dead. And Sherlock’s dead. Oh, sorry, I—” she broke off, looking at John. “That’s terrible, I shouldn’t say—”

John blinked, feeling the urge to tell her that it was all right (and wasn’t that a bit ridiculous?). He settled for carefully patting her on the shoulder as she stammered out an unintelligible stream of syllables.

“No, it does matter, Molly,” John said finally. “It’s the _truth_ , and that’s important, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” she said hastily, looking down at her hands again. “Always. The truth. Yes.”

“Listen,” John said, taking a deep breath, “I’m going to prove that Sherlock is innocent.”

“You...you are?”

“Yes,” John nodded, with increasing confidence. “Someone has to do it, and I care, so why not?”

“Um, how are you going to do that, exactly?” she asked while gnawing on her lip.

“I’m not sure yet,” John admitted. “But I thought I’d start by visiting Sherlock’s old clients. Surely they can’t all believe that Sherlock planned all those things.”

“But...but then why wouldn’t they have said something already?”

“Because no-one asked.” John sent Molly a meaningful glance. “Like you were saying.”

“Oh, my god, I guess I _should_ have said something then? Um, I didn’t—”

“No, please, I didn’t mean to make you feel guilty,” John reassured her swiftly. “I just meant, they didn’t have the chance. So maybe if I give it to them – if I talk to them, maybe we can piece together the whole story.”

“Okay.” Molly smiled faintly. John thought she looked almost terrified. “That sounds...good. Yeah. So you’re...going to do this, then?”

“Right. Yeah.” John let out a huff of laughter. “I can’t quite believe I’m going to do it, but yeah.” He smiled at her. “If I do this, would you be willing to tell the newspapers your story, too?”

“Uh—of, of course,” she nodded frantically. “Anything, yes.”

“Thank you.” John started towards the door, and then turned back. “Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a bit peaky.”

“It’s...no, I’m fine. It’s just...the cold. You know.”

“Right. I’m off, then. Take care, Molly.” And with that John was gone.

Molly Hooper stood by the examination table, muttering in a very small voice, “Story. Right. Tell them...a story.”


	3. Old Friends Remember

**From** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **To** : vhunter@gmail.com; hall_pycr@yahoo.co.uk; alturner@gmail.com; holdera@streatham.co.uk; pyland-ross@pyland.co.uk; grmunro@yahoo.co.uk; phelpsp@fco.gov.uk; huxtable@priory.co.uk; neliganjh@gmail.com; overtonc@hermes.cam.ac.uk; henryknight@gmail.com; chrismel@kratidestruth.co.uk; julston@hotmail.co.uk; barnicots@gmail.com  
 **Sent** : Thursday, 09 May 2013, 14:37:15  
 **Subject** : clearing Sherlock’s name

Hello, all,

This is Dr John Watson. I’m not sure if you remember me; I am, however, fairly sure that you all remember Sherlock Holmes.

Every one of you came to Sherlock Holmes for his help. For some of you, he saved your careers; for some, your fortunes; and for some, your lives. Always, he investigated to allow you to move past the mysteries haunting you. He didn’t do this for the money (as many of you already know); he didn’t do this, as the newspapers have been saying, to “show off”. He did it because that was just the kind of person he was. Anything less than the truth was abhorrent to him.

Well, now he needs your help. The papers say that he’s a fraud. You know they’re wrong.

I am going to prove his innocence through the only way I know how: by telling the whole story to the public. But I can’t do this alone. I need your stories as well. The more people I talk to, the more difficult it will be to say that it’s all a lie.

Please let me know if you’re willing to meet with me and share your story. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Dr John Watson, MBBS  
Accidents & Emergencies  
Saint Mary’s Hospital  
Praed Street, London W2 1NY

 

 **From** : pycrofth@contisec.com  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Thursday, 09 May 2013, 18:21:43  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

Dear Dr Watson,

First, let me offer my sincerest condolences for this entire mess. I couldn’t believe it, reading the papers, and I certainly don’t believe that Sherlock did anything of the sort. For one, how could he have known that I’d go to him for help?

I’m more than willing to meet with you and speak to you about my experiences with Sherlock. If it’s convenient for you, we might meet this weekend? I’m generally free any time in the afternoon.

You’re a good man, Dr Watson. Please, don’t give up hope.

Regards,

Hall Pycroft  
Senior Stockbroker  
City & Continental LLP

 

 **From** : overtonc@therfu.com  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Friday, 10 May 2013, 02:06:47  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

Dear Dr Watson,

Oh, I’m with you that Mr Holmes was the real thing. The man knew nothing about rugger and had no interest in it besides, and I don’t see how he’d have ever arranged for Godfrey to go missing.

I’d love to meet with you, believe me, but unfortunately we’re touring New Zealand right now and won’t get home for another three or four months. Would it help if I wrote down my statement and sent it over? We might meet for a pint after tour ends, also.

Best,

Cyril Overton  
Lock Forward  
England National Rugby Union Team

 

 **From** : vhunter@stmaryscambridge.co.uk  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Friday, 10 May 2013, 07:02:56  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

Dear Dr Watson,

I absolutely agree that the story going around at the moment is complete and utter rubbish. To be honest I was thinking about going to the papers myself. Of course I’ll speak with you about Mr Holmes.

Will you be anywhere near Cambridge sometime soon? Or shall I come visit you? If the latter I will be in London next Thursday; are you still living at 221B Baker Street? Let me know.

Sincerely,

Violet Hunter  
Headmistress  
St Mary’s School  
6 Chaucer Road, Cambridge CB2 7EB

 

 **From** : mailer-daemon@hotmail.co.uk  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Friday, 10 May 2013, 08:00:00  
 **Subject** : Failure Notice

This is an automatically generated Delivery Status Notification

Delivery to the following recipient failed permanently:

     chrismel@kratidestruth.co.uk

Technical details of permanent failure:  
DNS Error: Domain name not found

\----- Original message -----

MIME-Version: 1.0  
Received: by 10.231.21.158 with SMTP id j30mr1196292ibb.4.1254784446080; Thu,  
09 May 2013 [14:37:15 +0000 (GMT)]  
Date: Friday, 10 May 2013 [08:00:00 +0000]  
Message-ID: 76ddfa5f0910051614ma569abdl8818dfb365f98981@mail.hotmail.co.uk  
Subject: clearing Sherlock’s name  
From: John Watson, johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
To: chrismel@kratidestruth.co.uk  
Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary=0015177404422da6e3047538455c

\--0015177404422da6e3047538455c  
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1

_Hello, all,_

_This is Dr John Watson. I’m not sure if you remember me; I am, however, fairly sure that you all remember Sherlock Holmes._

\----- Message truncated -----

 

 **From** : henryknight@gmail.com  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Friday, 10 May 2013, 10:21:09  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

Dear John,

Gosh, I didn’t realise what was going on down there. Just...anyone who’d ever met Mr Holmes would know in a minute that he couldn’t possibly be a fake, you know? And the thing with Bob and my dad...there’s just no way he could’ve ever made that up. I don’t understand how anyone could believe those stories about him.

I’d be absolutely thrilled to talk with you. Unfortunately I can’t leave Devon for a couple of weeks, while some issues are getting sorted. Would you be willing to come down? We can meet in Newton Abbot, have a pint and chat.

Cheers,

Henry

 

 **From** : alturner@gmail.com  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **CC** : jmccart@gmail.com  
 **Sent** : Friday, 10 May 2013, 16:23:55  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

Dear John,

I’ve never forgotten that Mr Holmes saved my James, and the immensity of the debt that I owe him for that. Of course we’d both love to speak with you and tell our story, if that can help him in any way. Please, don’t hesitate to visit us any time.

Yours,

Alice Turner-McCarthy

 

 **From** : grmunro@yahoo.co.uk  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Saturday, 11 May 2013, 10:00:00  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

[This is an automated message.]

I’m sorry, but Effie, Lucy and I have gone to Atlanta. We’ll be returning on June 3rd, and I’ll try to get back to you then; if the matter is urgent, please contact John Hebron at jhebr@gmail.com.

Regards,

Grant Munro

 

 **From** : phelpsp@homeoffice.gsi.gov.uk  
 **To** : johnwatson@hotmail.co.uk  
 **Sent** : Saturday, 11 May 2013, 17:12:51  
 **Subject** : Re: clearing Sherlock’s name

Dear Dr Watson,

I’d love to help, believe me; I owe the man so much. Unfortunately, ever since [REDACTED] has come under inquiry, everyone at the office has been given strict orders not to get involved in the affair until further notice. The atmosphere here is fairly unfriendly towards Sherlock at the moment, and if I speak now it’s just going to get worse all around. I feel it’d be best if I kept a low profile and tried to sway the opinion in Sherlock’s favour from the inside.

Sincerely,

Percy Phelps  
Junior Undersecretary to [REDACTED]  
Home Office

* * *

Getting off the train at the Newton Abbot station, John stretched, feeling his stiffened muscles protest.

A call came from the benches. “John! Over here!”

“Henry!” John looked around and felt a small, albeit genuine, smile tugging at his lips. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’ve been—well, I’ve definitely been worse,” Henry shrugged. “How was your trip?”

“Decent,” John said. “Well, boring,” he added upon reflection.

“Ah.” Henry stared at John for a minute, apparently internally debating something. Finally, he said, “And, uh, how have you been dealing with the...the, um—”

“Fine,” John interrupted, voice a little too loud, before Henry could finish. “Shall we go get a drink?” He started off the platform before Henry could respond, leaving the other man to follow.

 

“...and that wasn’t the end of it.” Henry’s voice had acquired a slight slur after his third pint, but his eyes grew more focused as he leaned in towards the dictaphone. “His work was done. The mystery was over. But instead, he made me look at the hound and showed me that it might have been real once, but it was dead, and gone, and didn’t matter anymore.

“He let me believe in my own mind again, all right? I was going crazy; I didn’t know what was real and what was a hallucination, and without him I would have done it, you know, put the gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger.

“Sherlock Holmes was real, and he was a great man, and I, Henry Knight, believe in him.”

He reached for the dictaphone and shut it off with a small _click_. “God,” he said softly, leaning back into his seat, “I need another drink.”

John tried to speak and had to clear his throat several times before words would come out. “That was—I just—Henry, that was great,” he stumbled. “Thank you.”

“It was nothing,” he shook his head. “Compared to what he did for me? Absolutely nothing.”

The pub was far from quiet, the sounds of a football match on the telly mingling with the laughter of men and women, but John and Henry were each lost in an almost reverent silence.

John was the one who broke it first. “Well, I should be getting back,” he started, pushing back his chair. “Going to try and catch the 6:34.”

“Of course,” Henry nodded. “Don’t let me keep you, then.” They both got up, John stowing the dictaphone in his pocket while Henry paid the bill over John’s protests. As they walked out into the cooling air, towards the station, Henry shot several uncertain looks at John and finally began, “Listen, John, about this whole thing—”

“Hmm?”

“Do you—I mean, would it help if you had, you know, more funding behind it?”

“I—suppose,” John said slowly. “I hadn’t really planned that far.”

“Because I can help with that,” Henry said, his words all coming out in a rush, “if you wanted, of course, but I’d really like to do something more for Sherlock, and it was just...a thought—”

“No, Henry, it’s a great idea, and if you did that I’d be, uh, honoured, really—” John broke off, and they stared awkwardly at each other. “Um, if you emailed me when I get back to London?”

“Yeah. Yes, of course. I can...do that.” Henry nodded. “Absolutely.”

“All right. We can work something out.” They’d reached the station then, and as John started for the platform, he turned back to say, “And Henry? Just... _thank you_.”

“No trouble at all,” was the reply, and then Henry Knight was walking away, leaving John alone with only memories.

 

Memories, once called on, are not things easily dismissed. They hook their claws into cracks in the brain and refuse to let go, dredging up many others before finally deigning to go.

So it happened that as John sat on a metal bench waiting for the train, he was thinking of one Irene Adler, and the first time she met Sherlock. (To be accurate it would have been the day she met the two of them, but John had the slightly sickening feeling that around those two, he disappeared completely, just another part of the background.)

Irene and Sherlock...were a good match. John could admit that. Both intelligent, attractive, and all-too-aware of how to use those facts to make their way in the world. Well, maybe Sherlock leaned more one way and Irene more the other, but they both _knew_.

John’s brain suddenly conjured up an image of Sherlock, the top button of his shirt undone (as always) and cuffs rolled up to reveal pale, lean forearms as he focused intently on some experiment.

He blinked, and the image was gone, replaced by the train from Exeter just pulling in, the sun glinting off indigo paint.

John shook his head; his memories seemed to be doing something strange, arranging themselves around Sherlock like he were some kind of bloody magnet, and he wasn’t sure he liked that at all. He deliberately turned all his attention to the disembarking passengers opposite him instead, trying not to remember anything.

One woman in particular caught his eye, smartly dressed with a figure to match. Something about her auburn hair niggled at John; he frowned a bit and looked more closely at it.

_“Close your eyes. The average human memory on visual matters is only 62% accurate, and you want to filter out all external stimuli.”_

“Get out of my head, Sherlock,” John muttered, but shut his eyes anyway.

When his eyes snapped back open, the woman was just leaving the platform. He bolted up and followed.

“Excuse me,” he panted as he caught up with her at the door. “I think we’ve met.”

She gave him a wholly uninterested look. “No, I don’t think so,” she said, shifting to move past him.

“Irene Adler,” he called after her. “You were her—god, I don’t even know what, but you _were_ —”

At the name she turned abruptly around, her expression alarmed. “Oh, for god’s sake,” she hissed with a roll of her eyes. “Shut up right now.” With an irritated jerk of her head, she began to walk away, only looking back once as if to ask, _well, are you coming?_

John blinked a couple of times, uncertain; he glanced at his watch (6:32), then at the woman, before sighing and jogging after her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, _I know_ , massive coincidences aren't really great. The original story had gods in it, though, so this isn't half as improbable.  
> Also, much thanks to ACD, who invented characters so I don't have to.


	4. Kate of Newton Abbot

The woman had unlocked a dull-looking Escort and was sitting in the driver’s seat. After a moment’s hesitation, John got in the passenger side. Inside, she’d started rubbing the bridge of her nose tiredly. “I am going to drive home in a moment and make myself a cup of tea, because it’s been a long day. You’ve just made it longer. What do you want?”

John looked at her while her neatly manicured fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “To talk,” he finally said. “About Sherlock.”

With a dissatisfied noise, she slipped the key into the ignition and started driving without another word.

“What’s your name again?” he asked, to break the tense silence.

“Kate.” And then, under her breath, “Of all people. _John Watson._ ”

 

The first words that Kate uttered to John when they reached her flat was, “I suppose you’d like some tea, too.”

“I—uh—” John floundered.

“Of course you do,” she sighed in displeasure. “In the kitchen, then; no sense in wasting time.”

She looked at him expectantly until he realised that she was waiting for him to go inside first. With discomfort prickling down his neck, he made his way to the kitchen. In the rather spartan space, he felt extremely out of place.

Kate walked in, taking her jacket off, and put the kettle on without looking at John. Only the fact that she put out two mugs instead of one indicated that she was aware of him at all.

Several times John took a breath to marshal his words, and then had to stop. He had the feeling that with one wrong phrase, Kate might snap shut completely, and he was determined to see this through to the end, whatever that might be.

When the preparations were done and there were two steaming mugs of tea on the table, Kate took a long swallow and sighed, some invisible knot of tension unravelling, before finally sparing John a glance. “All right, why are you in Devon?”

“I came down to talk to Henry Knight,” he said, nonplussed. “Why does it matter?”

“Henry Knight,” she repeated to herself, frowning. “Henry...Knight. Doesn’t sound familiar.”

“I...didn’t expect it to.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised.” She flashed him a smirk that quickly faded. “Fine, so no-one’s sent you here, specifically.”

“...no?” John gave her a confused smile. “Sorry, were you expecting someone to?”

“You might say that,” she nodded. “Not happily, though.” She stirred absently at her tea while John sipped at his own. “Unless...you didn’t happen to notice whether you were being followed, did you?”

“Followed?” John echoed. “Er, maybe a couple of journalists, but I don’t think they came all the way here.”

“Journalists?” She sent John a sharp look. “ _Just_ journalists?”

“...as far as I know, yes.” He lifted his mug to his mouth and found the tea surprisingly good. Kate had put her own drink down and was now pacing the short length of the kitchen. “You seem a bit...jumpy,” he ventured. “Are you—”

“Jumpy, yes,” she laughed, the sound very brittle. “It’s either that or not survive. You of all people should know.”

“Know about...?”

Her answer was simply, “Moriarty.”

John’s first impulse was to shudder, his second to shake his head. He did neither. “But Moriarty’s dead,” he said instead. “Killed himself.”

“The man, of course,” Kate waved dismissively, “but not the network.”

John raised an eyebrow, before a thought struck him. “Hang on, I thought you were on the same side.”

“Were,” she nodded. “But then Irene just had to go and help out that darling of hers – she’s always had a soft spot for tall, pretty, and innocent, you know – and it turns out someone noticed.” She smiled, and there was a bitter edge to it. 

“Sorry, who are we talking about?”

“Your Sherlock. Obviously.”

“He’s not ‘my’ anything,” John said wearily. “He’s just...Sherlock. And what do you mean, she had to go help him out? She’s—they’re both, well, dead.”

“Uh, no.” She looked over. “They’re alive. Both of them.”

 _Sherlock, alive_ , was John’s first thought, but no, that wasn’t good, that wasn’t good at all; he didn’t have time for hope. “He’s definitely dead,” he said, trying to keep his voice from wavering. “I _saw_ him.”

“Sure,” said Kate, “and I saw Irene with her face bashed in before she came back with a grin like the proverbial cat, so let’s not discard any possibilities, shall we?” She gave him a smile with a touch more sympathy as she caught his expression. “It’s hard,” she murmured, “loving someone like that.”

“I’m not—” The protest rose automatically to his lips.

“If you insist.” She smirked. “Take it from me, then.”

There was a pause while John attempted to wrap his brain around the conversation. “Sherlock’s...alive.” He tried on the words. They fit, but only just. “I don’t understand.”

“Alive.” Kate nodded, looking for all the world as if she were commenting on the weather. “That’s all there is to it.”

“But...how?”

“Ask him that,” Kate just shrugged. “Maybe he and Irene traded tips.”

“He...went to _Irene Adler_? For help?” A flash of betrayal shot through him at the thought. Kate must have caught it, because she chuckled.

“Look, don’t take it personally. You think you’re the only one with a misplaced sense of responsibility? Honestly, the two of you.” John frowned at that, but Kate went on. “And besides, if I recall correctly, he didn’t have much of a choice...”

 

_Irene got herself into a witness protection programme in America. (I suppose Sherlock helped.) Oh, don’t look at me like that – they’re all geniuses of a sort, Irene and both Holmeses, and if there’s one thing geniuses love it’s outwitting each other. No doubt Sherlock was quite pleased when you spoke the truth-lie without quite looking him in the eye._

_But this isn’t about Sherlock._

_This is about Irene, who put on the guise of Olivia Norton, rising talent with a brilliant voice who cut her career short at the death of her beloved husband – what? She does have a lovely voice; surely you’ve noticed. And I think it pleases her, that she can adopt the persona of a rather shy, demure woman and still have half a dozen state secrets under her smile._

_You look uncomfortable, Dr Watson. It’s not about the sex, you know. It’s about making someone feel wanted._

_Sherlock likes to treat emotions as extraneous, something to root out at all costs. Irene treats emotions as keys to play to get precisely the notes she needs. Which is better?_

_I like to think that your Sherlock’s method makes him more vulnerable. But, then again, I might be biased. Am._

_He was in a car accident, apparently; the news channels called for friends or relatives and she...picked him up. He couldn’t deny it without drawing suspicions._

_God, I wish she hadn’t._

_Oh, don’t look so worried. He’s fine. Well, not permanently damaged, at least. Save your concerns for what’s going to happen._

_Can’t you feel it? If he comes back (when he comes back), that’s when the storm’s going to break._

 

**End of Part One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So updates for this are going to happen in sort of self-contained parts, because a) that's how I'm writing this and b) it makes a lot of sense, narrative-wise. 
> 
> Part Two will pick up with Sherlock in New Jersey. Cheers!  
> (Also, if anyone has knowledge that could apply to the Homeless Network, in particular speech patterns/accents/word choices, and is willing to share, please drop me a message at my [tumblr](http://white-fang.tumblr.com/ask)? Thanks.)


End file.
